Jeimu meets Sabertooth

[random_xtras]

Jeimu could still feel her leg muscles trying to dance as she walked down the alleyway, the tatters on the sleeveless side of her green shirt swinging against her arm. She'd gone against several contenders that night in the big DDR showdown and done herself proud.

Just don't know what I'm gonna do with this %$#@ ugly trophy, she thought, hefting it in one hand. It scraped against the brick of the wall next to her, making a startlingly loud noise. She jumped slightly, her metal bracelets jangling, then sighed. She was used to this alley. After all, the machine at the arcade near the old train station was only where she learned how to play DDR. This was a familiar place. But she still felt suddenly uneasy.

A hollow hacking cough sounded from ahead of her and she stopped, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the area, head moving slowly from side to side.

Someone was huddled under the awning that covered the back door of Tony's Bistro, shielded from her full view by a dumpster that smelled of stale donuts. Walking slowly and silently, trophy raised and waiting to deal a good heavy blow, she walked around the dumpster.

It was a man. A big one, with long blond hair and a dirty brown trench coat. He didn't seem to notice her as he leaned his forehead against the wall and coughed again, the sound seeming to tear out of him.

Jeimu lowered her trophy. "Excuse me," she said, her Irish accent strong. "Are you alright?"

He either didn't hear her, or didn't choose to reply, because all he did was groan and seem to fold into himself a little.

Jeimu abandoned her trophy and walked over to him. "Do you need a doctor?" she said slowly. "'Cause I know where there is one.…"

He gave a very leonine growl and lifted his head enough to glare at her out of eyes like chips of obsidin. "No...doctor. Wouldn'...look't me...anyhow." Gasping, he curled up even more tightly.

"Well, is there something I can do for you?" Jeimu's voice was cheerful. "'Cause Tony's closing up now, and he'll be putting Burt, his Doberman, out to guard the premises. It's time to move, if you're gonna."

"Can't." The voice was so faint that she had to bend close to hear it. "Gimme...hand?"

"Sure," said Jeimu. "I live up the road. Think you can manage half a block and five steps up some stairs?" She picked up her trophy and hefted it onto one shoulder, offering the man her free hand.

He peered at it blearily, then shook his head and tried to pull himself up against the wall, only to fall back with another groan. "^%$#!" He started coughing again.

Jeimu narrowed her eyes, then brightened. "I have an idea," she said cheerfully. "Take my hand." She reached out to the large man, and looked into his eyes.

Her dark eyes seemed to flicker, there was a rush of wind, and then the two stood in front of Jeimu's semidetached house. She grinned. "Here we are. Wasn't too much effort, was it?"

The man gave a choked moan and collapsed onto the grass, obviously out cold.

Jeimu frowned at him, then gave him a gentle nudge. Gaining no response, she gave a sigh and snapped her fingers, waved her hand in the air, and the man was raised as though an invisible force was holding him. Using this, she managed to get him through the front door and into her living room, where, through sheer grit, she settled him on her couch.

It was only then that she saw the blood on the front of his plaid shirt and leaking from the corner of his mouth, and heard the bubbling of his breath.

Big as an ox he might be, but the man was dying.

"Oh great." She sighed, and put her hands on her hips. Suddenly she got a massive brainwave. This man was a mutant. She'd never encountered one before, though she’d heard of them. Her abilities, as far as she knew, didn't establish her as one of them. But Dr. Parsons would know....at least she hoped he would. She grabbed her phone and dialed.

"Hello?" The voice at the other end of the phone was bleary, and Jeimu said a silent prayer of thanks that she knew Dr. Parsons' home phone number.

"Hey," she answered. "It's Jeimu."

"Yes?" He sounded suddenly interested. "Are you...okay?" He sounded overtly concerned.

"I'm fine," she said. "But I have someone here who might need help."

"Why don't you bring him in?" asked Dr Parsons.

Jeimu's voice carried a tone that suggested that what she was about to say was not up for discussion. "He doesn't wish to come. And I don't know what else to do."

"Alright. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Dr. Parsons knew, she thought. He'd dealt enough with mutants that he must already have an inkling of what she was harboring in her home. She said a hurried thanks and hung up the phone, then looked down at her charge. "And how're you doing?" she said. "I've got a doctor coming whether you like it or not."

She was a little surprised to see him open his eyes and give a nasty grin.

"Ja tellim' what he's lookin' at, frail?" he rasped, voice bubbling as through it came from the bottom of a pool.

Jeimu frowned and winced at the grin, then spoke a bit timidly. "Sit up."

"What?" came the raspy reply.

"Just sit up so you can have some bloody air passages clear so you don't die on me, alright?" Jeimu's black eyes flashed with anger at his stubbornness. Scowling, she paced behind the couch, waiting for Dr. Parsons to arrive. I could take care of this, she thought, but I gave up on that way of life years ago.

Meanwhile, the man gave her a look that promised murder as he struggled to do as she said, only to fall face-first off the couch and lay still.

"Just bloody great," Jeimu muttered to herself, looking at the blood-stained carpet. She made to move him, but the doorbell rang. "Come in!" she bellowed, and in through the door stepped Dr. Parsons.

"What is going on?" he asked.

"He.... Well, I don't know." Jeimu said, helping the doctor turn him over. "I found him like this."

"Let's get him propped up, shall we?" The doctor reached for a fuzzy pillow on the couch, only to snatch his hand back as she glared at him.

"Not," Jeimu said with a growl as she shoved a plain white cushion at him, "that one."

The good doctor was too wise to reply. He merely propped his patient and went to work, not even seeming to notice that the front of his white coat was soon soaked with blood and marked with dirt. As Jeimu watched he finished checking the man over, and face grave, took a scalpel and some tubing out of his bag. "Can you bring me a wet cloth, please?" He set out rubber gloves, suture material, and disinfectant.

Muttering sullenly and still in shock over the state of her living room, Jeimu went to her kitchen and grabbed a fresh washcloth, which she soaked with warm water from the tap. Wringing it out, she returned to the doctor. "So what's the diagnosis?"

Dr Parsons didn't reply at once, except to murmur softly in French as he carefully washed away most of the blood and serum from the man's chest, which closely resembled hamburger. But then he looked up at her gravely. "It appears to be some sort of immune system problem. I will know more when I bring the samples to my lab. In the meantime I need to get these tubes into his lungs so that all that blood can drain. Are you comfortable playing nurse?

Jeimu rolled her eyes. "Give me a minute," she said, going down the hall. After a brief pause, she returned dressed in ratty sweatpants and a T-shirt with rolled-up sleeves, knotted at the waist. Her hair was slicked back, completely out of her face. "Okay, doc," she breathed, squaring herself. "What do I have to do?"


* * *


The charge had been sedated; he was now slumbering peacefully on Jeimu's couch again, a bandage wrapped snugly around his chest.

"...and make sure he takes these to guard against infections," Dr. Parsons said, handing her a bottle of pills.

Jeimu nodded. She'd had to take care of post-surgery patients before and the routine was always the same: change the dressing every day, wash with saline, take the penicillin, et cetera et cetera, et cetera.

"I understand. Thanks for your help," she said as the doctor gathered his belongings and left with an acknowledging smile on his face.

With a sigh, she returned to her cleaned-up living room and sat on the chair opposite her charge. "Okay, big guy," she muttered. "Now what?"

She didn't expect an answer, not after the amount of painkiller the Doctor had pumped into him. So she jumped when he replied.

"Food."

She was startled by his voice, it now sounded somewhat normal and less like a drowned rat. "Fine," she said, getting up and going to her kitchen. "Do you like meat?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Hand it over," he rumbled, then made a choked sound and growled.

Jeimu reached into the fridge and pulled out a shrink-wrapped steak. Unwrapping it, she lay it on a plate and took it into the living room, intent on asking him how he'd like it cooked.

He pushed himself up weakly as he saw her coming, then took the meat and bit into it with a sigh.

The words froze in her mouth. She blinked, then shrugged and went back to the kitchen, feeling somewhat queasy.

"Got beer?" he called after her.

"Not bloody likely," she said loudly, coming back with a bottle of Jones soda and a turkey sandwich. She sat cross legged in the chair, took a bite, and stared at him. "First, I don't drink...anymore. And second, you're stoned out of your tree on who-knows-what medication. So no alcohol for you." She continued to eat.

He gave her another look that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, though she didn't show it, then pointed to the soda.

"Gimme one 'a those, then. Just not that pink ^%$#."

Putting the plate on the end table and shooting him an exasperated scowl, Jeimu stomped to the kitchen, pulled out a clear soda, and shoved it into his hand. She then sat down again. "And after this," she said slowly, "I am going to bed."

"Thanks," he said to her surprise, then pulled the lid off and chugged it down as though he hadn't drunk in days.

Jeimu watched him as she finished her sandwich. He held the empty bottle, his eyes scanning around uncertainly.

She sighed again. It was like looking after a child. "I'll take that," she said kindly, too tired to come off as stubborn anymore. "And d'you want some water?"

"Yeah," he said, perking up a little.

She retreated to her kitchen one final time and handed him a large bottle of water. "Okay. Now I'm really going to bed."

"Sweet dreams," he said, not looking up from the remains of his steak.


* * *


She was sitting on her bed, engrossed in the Serial Experiments Lain manga that she'd found under her dresser, when she heard the water come on in the shower. Remembering the doctor's orders, she heaved herself out of bed and went to the bathroom door, knocking loudly.

"What?" came the gruff reply.

"Change up your dressing, and wash your incision out with that stuff on the counter. It's all there. Do it or you die," she said, figuring that his tough guy persona could do with a little bit of selective encouragement.

"Gonna die anyway," he said, his voice so low she could barely hear it.

Before she could retort he added, "Might as well die clean."

Rolling her eyes, she went back to her room and picked up her Lain manga again. "Such an optimist," she muttered to herself.




2



Jeimu groaned and rubbed her eyes, then tried burrowing under the blankets to get away from the sunbeam that had somehow managed to get through the curtains to come and visit her.

She lay there for a few minutes, then realized that she was fully awake and threw the covers back with a curse. It wasn't till she'd padded into the livingroom to get the paper that she remembered her guest.

A glance at the couch showed it to be empty, but then a soft, rhythmic snoring drew her eyes to where he lay curled on the floor, wrapped in a blanket that barely covered his large frame.

Jeimu groaned. The man was hairy, completely naked save for that blanket, and he was already bleeding through his bandages.

She walked over to him and poked him in the shoulder.

He opened one eye and looked at her confusedly, then went back to sleep.

"No, no no. Get UP," she said with another poke. "You need to be cleaned up and then we can get you into the spare room that I know I didn't bloody well think of last night." She heaved him to his feet and manipulated him so that he held the blanket. "Please don't let go of that," she whimpered, leading him to the bathroom.

He stumbled and nearly crushed her a couple of times, but never really opened his eyes, even when she let him droop to sit on the toilet seat. She turned for a split instant to automatically check herself in the mirror, and whirled back barely in time to catch him as he started to list.

She noticed that heat was radiating off of him and did her best to keep him comfortable while she tended to his surgery wound. Setting the tools on the counter, she wiped sweat off her forehead, and went in search of something for the fever. A bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen was all she had, but it had worked for her before. She forced him to take a couple along with his antibiotics and pain medicine, then dressed him in the oversized bathrobe hanging from the back of the door. It was a snug but adequate fit. Then she steered him into her spare room and carefully lowered him to the bed.

"Sleep here," she told him.

He actually opened his eyes and blinked, but then curled up with a sigh and dropped back to sleep.

Jeimu shook her head slowly and closed the curtains, then tiptoed around the bed and out of the room. Yawning, she closed the door behind her and walked into the livingroom. She looked over at her couch with disdain; sleeping there was not comfortable by any stretch of the imagination. But she was tired and heaving the man around had sapped most of her strength.

"Only one logical thing ta do," she muttered, going into her kitchen and turning on the coffeepot.

She was just settling down to her second bracing cup of the black nectar when the phone rang.

"Hello?" She snatched up the cordless receiver that was half-buried under yesterday's newspaper.

"This is Dr Parsons, may I speak to Jeimu please?"

"This is she." She noted that his voice sounded gruff, like he hadn't slept. "What's wrong, Doctor?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't recognize your voice." He sighed. "How is the patient?"

"I had to change his dressings, since he's still bleeding through them," she said, yawning again. "But he's asleep...in a bed this time...and seems to be alright." She paused. "He did have a fever, so I simply gave him ibuprofen for it. I'll be checking on him in another ten minutes or so."

"Is he restless?" asked the doctor. "You didn't take his temperature?"

"Restless, no." Jeimu frowned. "He's sound asleep. But I can try to wake him up to get his temperature if you'd like."

"No, it's probably better to let him sleep," he said heavily. "Jeimu, how well do you know that man?"

"I found him in the street last night," she said in a very brusque tone. "In the alley between the arcade and the station."

"So you know nothing about him...." Dr. Parsons sighed again. "If it weren't for what he is I'd say to take him to the hospice, but as things stand I'm not certain what to tell you."

"That bad. Well, tell me what it is, and what you know, anyway." Jeimu was beginning to feel a little angered at the notion of sending this man away to die.

"Part of his mutation includes accelerated healing. Due to what appears to be outside manipulation that ability has been enhanced. To the point where it is destroying him. Also, somehow someone has managed to bond some sort of poisonous metal to parts of his skeletal structure. Either of these things would kill him, with both it is only a question of how long he holds on. I could do some research and see if I could find a cure, but without next of kin to sign the papers...."

"Well." Jeimu sighed. "What if I said I was his next of kin?"

"Jeimu, you are a young lady who likes her privacy. Are you certain you want to take that responsibility?" Dr. Parson asked in concern.

She considered it for a moment; letting the man die after all she'd done was just cowardly. Jeimu was stubborn, she'd see him through to the end.

"Yeah, I'm sure," she said with confidence.

There was a short silence on the other end of the line, then a sigh. "Very well, I will bring the papers."

"Sounds good to me," she said. "Anything else you have to tell me?"

"Keep a close watch over him. I'll be bringing a heart monitor and IV equipment. He's badly dehydrated and malnourished, not to mention filthy."

"Well, he did shower," Jeimu said offhandedly, "but I can't say the other stuff wouldn't help. I guess I'll see you in a few minutes, then?"

"Shower??" Dr. Parson's voice cracked slightly with surprise. "I thought you said he was sleeping?"

"That was before he went to sleep. He woke up, and woke ME up too, with his banging about the loo." She grinned to herself. "Anyway. I should go and check on him. I'll see you soon."

"Yes, alright. Till then," he said slowly and hung up.

She lifted herself from the recliner and padded over to the closed bedroom door, hesitating for a moment before letting herself enter. The man was there, asleep and tossing about only a bit.

Jeimu retreated to grab a thermometer from the bathroom and then returned, wondering how on earth she was to make this work. She doubted her charge would appreciate a cold metal thing under his tongue.

He never moved as she came to stand over him, but she heard a soft growl, followed by an explicitive and the word 'runt' before he returned to that deep sleep he'd been in earlier.

She took his temperature as quickly as possible, then went out into the brighter light of the hallway to read it. "Forty-one celsius," she muttered. "Not as bad as it could be."

Satisfied that her charge was going to live for the moment, she grabbed a magazine from her bathroom rack and sat on the hallway floor to wait for Dr. Parsons.

Several minutes passed in comfortable silence, then there was a polite tap on her front door, followed by a faint snarl from inside the bedroom that sounded about as pitiful as something a toy dog would do.

"Finally," Jeimu muttered, going to the door and opening it. "Glad you're here, Doc. Now, what is it that I need to do?"

He handed her a fat yellow envalope full of papers, then lifted a heavy case full of equipment and came in. "Has he wakened at all?"

"Not really, he's sort of half-awake at times, but not entirely conscious. I took a temp two minutes ago and he was forty-one degrees." She sat down with the papers, a pen, and another Jones soda at her kitchen table.

He sighed and carried the equipment into the bedroom, his normally cheerful face looking grim.

Chewing her pen lid thoughtfully, Jeimu watched him go, then opened the envelope and pulled out the first document. She began to read it slowly, starting to realize the implications of what she'd agreed to do.

The papers explained, in very minute detail, the procedure to be done on her charge. She skipped that part. It then went on to say that she was claiming to be his next of kin, and that she was absolving the doctor of all liability.

"Stupid liability," she muttered, signing the paper with a flourish.

Dr. Parsons poked his head into the room. "Do you have any hydrogen peroxid solution? And do you have any idea what his name is?"

"Yes, in the bathroom opposite. Medicine cabinet, third shelf from the top. And his name is," she hesitated only slightly, realizing that she'd left that space blank on the form. "John Reynolds." She wrote it in the space as she pronounced it, then grimaced. Her charge didn't look like a John Reynolds at all.

Dr. Parsons had withdrawn, but poked his head back as she said the name. "John?"

"Yeah." She nodded, visibly nervous. "Why?"

He shrugged and disapeared again. "I'd have gone for Peter."

Jeimu shook her head and leafed through the remainder of the forms, signing wherever the document called for it. She began to wonder just what the doctor was doing. Leaving the documents on her table, she walked over to the spare room.

Dr. Parsons didn't look up as she peeked inside. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the faint line on the heart monitor and giving his unconcious patient a peptalk about how there was a very nice young lady out there who had her heart set on his surviving, and that he didn't want to disapoint said young lady because she'd probably do DDR on his grave if he did.

Jeimu raised an eyebrow. "So." she said, stepping inside. "How bad is it?"

"He just slipped into a coma while I was working on him." The doctor adjusted the blanket and straightened the man's arm, then stood and looked at her. "With the condition that his lungs are in I'm surprised that he's still breathing."

"What does that mean?" she snapped. Seeing Dr. Parsons' confused face she sighed. "Sorry, I just didn't think you'd answered my question. How bad is it?"

"He might not last till tonight." He turned away and started putting things into his bag. "I'll do the research anyway. He's lasted this long...." He looked at her, obviously trying to muster hope and feeling depressed at the thought of losing a patient.

"So you're not sure. Is that what you're saying?" She stared at the doctor, still trying to get her questions answered.

"Yes." The single word echoed the snap of his bag closing.

Jeimu sighed. "Fair enough, you'll find the completed forms on the table. And thanks." She stayed rooted to her spot in the corner of the bedroom, staring at the man. So he would die, she thought. Especially since the Doctor doesn't know what to do.

She heard Dr Parsons sigh, then felt his hand on her shoulder as he left the room, followed by the soft click of the front door closing.

She felt odd. Like she hadn't felt in years.

Sliding slowly down the wall, she sat heavily on the floor, still watching her guest. Somehow, she thought, somehow he must live, because I won't let him die.


She watched him for the rest of the afternoon, the steady, weak bleep of the heart monitor nearly drowned out by the rasp of his breathing in the oxygen mask.

But he didn't die. Somehow, incredibly, the bleeps and the rasps continued, though she could sense the battle behind each one.

Jeimu crept closer to the bedside, wondering if she could somehow find out what it was that was keeping this man alive. He was there on his back, chest rising and falling in a scattered pattern in time with the noises of the life-support machine, his face blank and closed. She shook her head feebly and decided that it was high time she ate. Or something.

Another venture to the kitchen, and another turkey sandwich and Jones soda and she was back to watching him fight for his life. She chewed slowly and quietly, as if any noise she made would cause him to stop breathing. She nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone rang, banging the back of her skull solidly against the wall.

"Ow." she muttered, reaching for the bedside phone.

"Hello?" she muttered into it, looking down at her illuminated clock and reading 8 PM. Dazed at how much time had gone by, she tried to focus on the caller's voice.

"What news?" Doctor Parsons sounded weary and full of discouragement.

"He's still alive," Jeimu said. "Fighting for it, but alive. What did you figure out?"

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

"Doc, don't put me through this," she sighed. "Did you find anything or not?"

"Yes," he gasped. "Yes, I did. Alive still? How's his temperature? Has he shown any sign at all of coming out of the coma?"

"He's still asleep, but I did take a temperature and he's down to thirty-eight. Almost normal." She giggled slightly. "And his pulse and breathing are barely-there, but at a good rhythm." She clutched the receiver. "So what'd you find out?"

"I think I've formulated a compound that will combat the effects of the metal and slow his immune system to a less destructive level. I have to make it and test it, which could take a couple of days...."

Why would someone bond poisonous metal to someone's skeleton anyway? Jeimu wondered.

"Have you found out what kind of metal it is?" she asked aloud.

"No, it's totally unknown to science," said Dr. Parsons. "But there are several things about our patient that suggest that he may not even be from our world."

Jeimu raised an eyebrow. Unknown metals, different worlds.... This was getting weirder by the minute. "Such as?" she inquired.

"He's totally lacking several endemic heavy metals in his fat cells, for one," said the doctor. "That metal, for another. I'm calling it adamantium, because the structure of the molecules suggests that it would be nearly indestructible."

"I see." She cleared her throat. "So this is like glorified lead poisoning?"

"Everyone has a certain amount of heavy metals in their fat cells, my dear, " he lectured gently. “It comes from living in this polluted environment.”

Then his voice became brisk. "Could you change the IV bag? I left two more in your refrigerator. And try to get some rest. You're no good to anyone if you're suffering from lack of sleep."

"Oh... okay." She nodded to herself. "I can do that. Thanks for everything, Doc." They exchanged goodbyes and Jeimu hung up the phone, going immediately to her fridge to help out her amazingly-not-dead-yet patient.

3


Jeimu lifted her head from the side of the bed and glared blearily at 'John' before she realized that the sound she was hearing was her doorbell.

She stood up and padded through her dark house, grabbing a blanket to wrap herself in against the cold, then yawned and opened the front door.

Dr. Parsons stood on the doorstep with a determined look on his face.

"So you got it," said Jeimu, glancing back at the hall clock and seeing that both hands were pointing to the twelve. Midnight.

"Yes. How is he?"

Jeimu smirked. "Still not dead." She ran a hand through her hair and sighed. "His temperature is now normal but he's still having a time breathing."

The doctor nodded and came inside. "I still cannot believe he's lasted this long without life support. He must have incredible determination."

Then he stopped and peered at Jeimu. "Have you been sleeping, my dear?"

She yawned and heard her jaw crack. "Three hours a night if I'm lucky," she admitted. "I don't know what it is, but it's like if he can't sleep, I can't." She scratched her chin and looked at the doctor. "You don't look too well-rested yourself."

He blinked at her owlishly. "He can't sleep? Has he come out of the coma?"

"He's unconscious, but not resting." She paused. "I'd hardly consider fighting for your life sleeping."

It was strange. She felt a vague sort of ...attunement to her charge. Either that or her sleep deprivation was hitting new heights. For the past two days she had only passed out from total exhaustion after observing the man she had dubbed John for as long as she'd been able.

Dr. Parsons blinked and nodded, then remembered himself and hefted his black bag. "I should administer this."

"Okay," Jeimu said, watching him go, then sidled into the kitchen and turned on the kettle for tea. She thought about what she had realized as she spoke to Dr. Parsons. She did feel a connection to the man, however slight, and it was that which was keeping her up all night. It was strange, just another thing to add to her list of strange abilities. She sighed as she poured herself some hot water and placed a teabag in the cup. She didn't want to disturb Dr Parsons with his work, so she stayed at the kitchen table, listening intently for any sound that could tell her what was going on...if the drug was working.

"Could I have a cup of that, my dear?" The doctor's weary voice asked from the doorway.

"Sure," Jeimu said. "Is a bag of Earl Grey alright?"

"Yes, that's fine." He rubbed his face and came to sit at the table.

Jeimu made the tea quickly and handed it to the doctor, who took it greatfully and sipped it hot and black.

"So," she said, leaning against the counter and looking at him over her own cup. "How'd it go?"

"We should know in the next few hours," he said softly, then blinked and lay his head on the table with a soft thud.

Jeimu smiled, moving his cup of tea away from his limp hand so it wouldn't spill. She then roused him and directed him to the living room couch, where he slept again in no time.

Returning to the kitchen, she took one sip of her tea before throwing the rest of it in the sink. Yawning again, she went down the hall toward her bedroom, but not before taking a lingering look at 'John'.


* * *


A strange sound snapped her to full wakefulness nearly four hours later.

She launched herself out of bed and toward the spare room. Glancing down at her charge, she wondered if he was alive, wondered what that noise could have meant, until she heard it again.

And again.

Her eyes travelled to the heart monitor. Where before the sonograph had shown tiny, weak peaks and valleys, there was now a strong, defined line of bumps. Still a weak pulse, but not dangerously slow as before. She smiled and sat on the foot of the bed, waiting.

More hours passed and she watched the pulse grow stronger, till it was at a normal sleeping rate. Colour returned to 'John's' face under the blond beard that had sprung up on his cheeks.

Then the steady line faltered and slowed. John moaned, his face creased in pain.

Jeimu's eyes went wide as the pulse rate momentarily dipped. She was frozen, torn between what she had the ability to do and what she thought was appropriate. She decided it was time to fetch the doctor still sleeping in the living room.

"Dr Parsons," she whispered. "He's awake...I think. His heart rate's gone down again." She tucked hair behind her ears, looking very exhausted.

The good doctor bolted upright, then tumbled off the couch much as his patient had a few days before, though he caught himself before he could do a face-plant on the bloodstain on the carpet.

"Goodness!" he gasped, looking at the clock. "He's overdue for another injection!"

"He needs more of that stuff?" Jeimu was near hysterics. "If I had known, I would have given it to him."

"He'll need it every three hours till I get the formula perfected." Dr. Parsons searched for his bag and finally backtracked himself to the kitchen, where he swiftly prepared a syringe.

"Alright." Jeimu breathed deeply. "I can do that."

"I hope that he will soon be able to do it for himself." Dr. Parsons turned and strode into the guest room, where he swabbed 'John's' arm and administered the shot.

Quick as a striking snake, the big man's hand shot out from under the covers and caught the doctor by the throat. Hard black eyes narrowed as a ferocious snarl rumbled his chest.

"What are you doing?" yelled Jeimu eyes wide with the suddeness of it.

He shot her a startled look, then glanced back at the doctor before dropping him with a deep growl and yanking the needle from his arm.

"My...goodness," said Dr. Parsons, staggering back weakly with his hand to his abused throat.

Jeimu couldn't speak, though she did all of a sudden feel a lot more mentally stable now that it appeared that she wasn't going to have to deal with a funeral.

"So you have to tell me," she managed at last, leaning over her guest. "What's your name?"

He blinked at her, then dropped the syringe and fell back against the pillows, his face a mask of confusion.

"Name?" she pressured gently.

He made a soft rumble in his throat, then looked up at her blankly, eyes showing no more intelligence than an animal's.

4


Jeimu passed the vacuum over the faint remains of the bloodstain, thinking that she'd attack it with the cleaner later. Nearly a week of daily scrubbing had nearly irradicated the ugly thing.

Grinning, she ran the carpet brush back and forth in long sweeps, quirking an eyebrow as her guest came in and parked himself in the sun, right in her way.

"And you're standing in my road because...?" She grinned and looked up at John, whose health seemed to be steadily improving. She looked down at the carpet again and pondered the advantages of an industrial steamer on the stain.

He looked down at her, a frown marring his usually placid face. The expression deepened as he cocked his head to watch the movement of the vacuum brush.

"Strange, that," she muttered. When he looked at her quizically, she felt the urge to explain. "You're standing tall and not attacking my vacuum. What on earth is going on?"

He quirked an eyebrow at her and rumbled in his chest uneasily, shifting from foot to foot.

"Why so nervous?" She put her foot on a large button on the vacuum, turning it off. Standing with her hands on her hips, she regarded him with an amused expression. "What's up?"

His expression went strangely pained and he looked at her sideways, the rumbling suddenly stopping as his eyes flew open in what looked like surprise.

"What are you so concerned about?" She grinned, used to his strange catlike moods, though this one was new to her.

He wrinkled his nose in a snarl, then suddenly dropped to the floor and grabbed his head.

Jeimu blinked as he rested his elbows on his knees and hissed under his breath.

"John," she said, kneeling down beside him, her face now a visage of worry. "What's going on?"

"Victor," he rumbled without looking up.

"What?" She leaned back, her expression falling into confusion.

"My name's Victor Creed." He lifted his head and looked at her, eyes sharp and watchful. "Who the *&^%$'re you?"

"Uhm." Jeimu stood up and scratched her head idly, confused for a moment until she remembered that John...no, wait, Victor...hadn't been conscious enough to find out who she was or where he was living. "Jeimu Chang. I've been taking care of you for the past while."

"Takin' care 'a me?" He suddenly put a hand to his chest, then lifted his white T shirt and studied it with lifted eyebrow. "What the ^%$#@?"

"Well." Jeimu sat down on her couch and faced him, hoping that he wouldn't take off all his clothes. "It was about two weeks ago that I found you on the street, and you were pretty banged up. So I called a doctor who knows a thing or two, we treated you, and now here you are." Another smile lit the Asian girl's face. "That's the long and short of it, except for the two or fifteen times you almost died."

He sniffed and let the shirt fall back into place, then fingered his sweatpants with a growl of disgust. "Why?"

"Why what?" she asked. "Why did I take care of you?"

"Yeah." He shot her a look full of wary suspicion. "Ya can't 've missed what I am, frail. 'N my face's ben on the news enough that you had ta know who I was, so what was with that 'John' crap?"

"You noticed any televisions in my house?" Jeimu asked, still smiling. "And trust me in that I know what you are.... And if you're calling ME frail, you've got another thing coming. I carried your sorry %!(^$) into this house when you were a dead weight, you know."

His eyes creased slightly at the corners. "Alright. But ya didn' answer the first one."

"I know what you are." Jeimu scrunched up her eyebrows. "And would it come as any surprise to you that I don't care?" She put her hands on her hips and stared into his eyes. "You might find," she said slowly, "that we're a little bit alike."

"You're a mutant?" He frowned and sniffed the air. "Not that I can pick up."

"I never claimed to be a mutant. I just said we were alike." Jeimu scowled, her tone of voice clearly stating that she did not wish to talk about the issue anymore. "And I'm not out to get you, or hand you over to the police, or whatever you think I'm going to do. So you're a mutant. So?"

He lifted one bushy eyebrow, rumbling deep in his throat and flexing his hands uneasily, then lifted his shirt and examined his chest again. "Not even the blue Twinkie could do anythin' 'bout this."

"What on earth are you talking about?" she asked in amusement as she got up to help him back to his feet and settle him on the couch. His eyes looked distant and disoriented, and she could see a hint of fear in them. "Blue Twinkie?"

He wrinkled his forehead at her incredulously as she helped him, looking as though he were wondering if she were under the influence of a mood altering substance, then scowled. "Hank McCoy."

"Can't say I know who that is," she said.

"A doctor." He was suddenly distracted by a police car going by on the street. "The runt's son-in-law."

Jeimu could see that he was poised to bolt. The sudden beep of the alarm on her watch sent him to his feet with a startled snarl and a flash of wicked claws from the ends of his fingers.

"Time for you to have a shot." Jeimu reset the alarm and stood up, completely oblivious to the snarling man in front of her, still frozen in an attack pose. "Do I have to stick it in you, or can you handle it yourself?" She walked around him and into the kitchen, heading for the fridge.

"Shot..." he rumbled and she turned to see him rubbing his arm thoughtfully. "I remember that. How often do I need 'em?" He took the syringe and eyed it, then drove it into his bicep and pressed the plunger without flinching.

Jeimu quirked an eyebrow and grinned. This man was made of tougher stuff than it seemed. "Every three hours." She took the used syringe from him and placed it in the container Dr. Parsons had provided. "Until the doctor can get the medicine down pat. Once he does, you just might only have to do it once a day or so."

"That'd be nice." He turned his head, quickly taking in the whole kitchen, then opened the fridge and stuck the top half of his body inside.

Jeimu sighed, completely appalled at the fact that this man now had his head and torso in amongst all her food. She wasn't entirely sure whether or not she should encourage him to help himself. "Feel free to...erm...have a sandwich," she said meekly.

"Nah." He reappeared with a pleased grin on his face and a whole raw chicken in one hand. "This'll do."

"Salmonella," was the only word that escaped Jeimu's mouth in her completely astonished state. She watched him devour the chicken right in front of her, smacking his lips greedily as he did, but she was too shocked to be angry or even annoyed. She just shook her head and pointed out the garbage can.

She really needed to lay down.

Victor wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and reached for the fridge door again, only to pause, look down at the front of his shirt, and mutter something rank.

"If you had only cooked the darn thing," said Jeimu, but then shrugged. Somehow she got the impression that talking right now would be just as effective as if she was speaking to a brick wall.

She really, really needed to lay down.

He growled and brushed at the bloodstain on his chest without looking up. "Do I have any more shirts? This is gonna give me indigestion...."

Jeimu noticed the way he was sidling away from the fridge and the distressed look on his face and walked over to the next room over, where she'd left a basket of folded shirts that she'd picked up a few days ago. "These should fit you. I'll put that one in the wash. I could imagine you're sick of blood by now. Maybe next time you could let me cook the chicken?"

He pulled off the tainted garment with a shudder, holding it wadded in one hand as he examined his chest. Then he poked at the waistband of his sweatpants in disgust. "Do I have any decent pants?"

"They're still in the dryer." She shrugged. "Shouldn't be more than fifteen minutes."

He lifted his head and looked at her, his expression faintly confused as he held out the dirty shirt. "Okay."

She took it and handed him one of the clean shirts from the basket. "I'll put the rest of these in the dresser in the room."